Our dear Arry Otter with a H before the A and a P before the O has now turned six months old and still isn't remotely close to being the brightest otter in his family. In fact, he was kicked out of school on his first day there. Mrs Otter (Arry's mother), was desperate for her son to get a 'proper eddication like them posh folk', so she decided to 'home eddicate' him. One day when the sun of our imaginations was shining on the Ottermore Marshes - for it was a dreary day -, Mrs Otter felt bad for her son, Arry, because when he went to play with the other Working Class otters, they teased him that he didn't go to the School for Working Class Critters and called him a dimwit. This was her solution; a very daft solution mind you, but it seemed a good one at that moment. "Arry, come over 'ere," called Mrs Otter from the tiny kitchen, "I needs to tell ya somethin' eddicational!" "Comin'!" came Arry's response, as he tried to free his leg from his little brother's clammy grasp. Wheezing like an old man, Arry stumbled into the kitchen. "Ah, there ya be me li'l sonny!" his mother said, pinching his cheeks and muttering, "Oh, how chubby yahve grown! Like a little lard-ball ya is!" "OK mum, why be ya holding a godforsaken haggis?" enquired Arry, glancing down at his mother's hand, which was clutching something that might have been insect guts. "Oh, never mind me godforsaken grass'opper haggis, I needs to give ya a goddamned bit a talk, me deer sonny," explained Mrs Otter, dropping the haggis at her feet and carelessly booting it into a corner. Squelch. "Me deer Arry, ya is special, even if them nasty otter kids ya plays with says you is a dimwit, yer reely special!" in her head, Mrs Otter added, just to meeself though. As Arry crawled like a big, fat slug out of the den, he reflected that me deer godforsaken mum thinks I is special, dad told me that special people can do sorcery, then to his speculation he added, that means I can be a sorcerer, like the reel Harry Potter! By now Arry had convinced his single brain cell that he could be a sorcerer - the thing is that he actually meant something like wizard or magician. See (mind you, keep this between you and be because we don't want to ruin Arry's big moment), the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer, is that a wizard is good, and a sorcerer is the bad guy. One of the bad guys. Arry recalled that someone had said that if you wanted to become a sorcerer, you needed to train with one, and the easiest sorcerers to find were the 'dodgy folk'; the badgers, skunks and snakes. The thing that Arry didn't know, was that these 'sorcerers' (also known as 'them dodgy folk') are actually mal-intentioned animals that use potions. But Shhh!
"Oi, kiddo! Wot is ya doin' in 'ere?" as Arry entered the dodgy folk's sett, a mangy, scarred badger shouted at him. It was dark and dank in there, with a rank, scent, like Arry's armpit, wafting around the room. Stale books were stacked against the far side of the sett's low wall, and Arry could make out a green coil of something in the far corner. There was a steaming cauldron at the entrance and next to it a rack crammed with jars and bottles with carved wooden stoppers in them. To be accurate, the sett was like a tunnel dug into a hill of dry sod in 'them godforsaken Ottermore Marshes' as Arry's aunt used to say. "Oh, yer one of them dodgy folk, isn't ya?" too late Arry realised that it might have been the wrong thing to say. Fortunately, the sudden bubbling of the cauldron had concealed his words. The ratty badger grunted, "Wot?" this time Arry said, "Mister Sir, I've brought meeself 'ere to see if ya could teach me some godforsaken sorcery to me goddamned soul," "Oh, I sees," muttered the badger, reaching for a bottle with a stopper the shape of a skull and crossbones. Arry saw this but he thought nothing of it. Clearly Arry's friends weren't wrong in calling him a dimwit. Clearly Arry was never to be the brightest otter in the family. Awhile later, Arry Otter was merrily strolling down the Marshes with the bottle with the skull and crossbones carved into it's stopper clutched in his blackish paw. As he advanced towards a small shrub (probably hawthorn or bramble), Arry's single braincell told him to go under that bush and drink the potion he was holding - well, to be fair, it wasn't really a potion, but it wasn't water either; it was just what Arry wasn't expecting. As the young otter made himself comfy under the thorny branches, he pulled out the stopper. The badger had told him that he was a special kid and that he only needed to drink the bottle of water to turn him into a full sorcerer. This was the second fib Arry had been told in his life. An elating sensation filled Arry as he gulped down mouthfuls of the clear liquid, even though it smelled funny, he still guzzled it; he wasn't going to set down the chance of becoming a sorcerer just because of a funny smell. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would've drained the liquid into one of the various boggy patches in the Ottermore Marshes. Anyone with an ounce of common sense wouldn't have gone to a badger's sett unless they were a badger themselves. Stumbling into the kitchen, Arry drunkenly waved hello to his mother, which was doing something with a haggis, and as a wave of giddiness swept him off his feet, he faceplanted onto the dusty kitchen floor. Arry was out cold for seven minutes. Arry was also a very stupid kid. "Oh, Arry me deer!" Mrs Otter cried out in relief as her son's black eyelids flicked open, "I thoughts ya wos ded!" As she caught a sour tang in her son's breath, Arry's mother asked concernedly, "Wot has ya been adrinkin'? Yer breth be as foul as some posh folk's peppermint!" "I just were adrinkin' some water, mum," Arry answered. "Well, wos there a dodgy stink?" "Yes mum, there wos," "So, wot be it like, Arry?" Mrs Otter impatiently huffed. "Like the stuff ya put on me li'l paws when ya wonts to clean them or summat," "Ya means alcohol!" Mrs Otter jerked back in surprise. "Yaput alcohol nonetheless! That's the most dangerous type of alcohol for a kid yer age!" exclaimed Arry's mother in a state of panic. As you can see very well, Mrs Otter was VERY wrong in telling Arry he was special. If you have any kids, don't tell them about how special you think they are - they're not. And that's why we don't all have only a single braincell.
